Legend In My Spare Time

Monday, September 29, 2014

I can remember a time when the political landscape was
dominated by, primarily, two philosophies. You had the Republican vision and
the Democratic vision. At times there was a third party in play, but for a very
long time, the two main parties would try to persuade voters as to which vision
they, essentially, endorsed. Then whoever was elected would, in theory at
least, initiated policies consistent with that vision.

That’s how it used to work.

It does not work that way anymore. Far as I can tell, I see
only one party offering up a vision. The other party? They criticize that
vision. And that’s fine, as that’s politics. Part of the persuasion is to
discredit the other vision as wrong-headed, short-sighted, or whatever.

But…you have to have an alternate vision. It simply cannot
be, “They’re wrong.” You have to tell me why you are right, and “Because they’re
wrong” is not an answer. Tell me why your view is better.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you today’s Republican Party.

They have been called a number of things recently: The Party
of No. Obstructionists. Puppets to the Koch Brothers. The Rich People’s Party…well
wait, they’ve always been called that.

But just answer me this – what do they stand for? What is
their vision? Lower taxes? Strong military? Okay, I will give you those. They
have long held those values. But the math simply does not work when you want to
spend gobs of money on something while reducing your ability to pay for it.

Personal freedom? Now you’re stretching. They have a
differing view of what “Freedom” is, and the best recent example of their idea
of freedom is Cliven Bundy – the freedom to break the law and pay no
consequences for it. Back in the 1960’s, those people were called Anarchists. Now
they’re called Conservatives.

But in reality, their vision is, ‘Against Anything Obama
Does.’ Now I realize this pegs me as a Democrat, and that is okay. Most
everyone knows I am. But you better stop with the personal criticism right
there, because at least my party has a vision. And when the other party spends
all their time demonizing the leader of the my party (Marxist, Kenyan, Muslim,
Appeaser In Chief, Feckless Leader…take your pick), eventually you have to step
to the dais and tell us your vision. We get you don’t like who is in charge.
That message has been clearly sent…and received.

So if you’re a Republican, what is your party’s vision? What
is the vision of America that Republicans proffer? Tell me. Guns? God? Less
government? Okay. Well, the devil is in the details – how do you plan on
accomplishing those things? How, for example, are you going to expand gun
rights more than they already are? In many states you can strap an AK-47 on
your back and walk into a Walmart. What more do you want there? God? The
Constitution grants all citizens freedom of religion, totally unfettered. Hard
to expand upon that. Less government? Okay. What is going to go away? Road
construction? Mass transit? Head Start? They won’t answer that, but instead
adhere to Reagan’s mantra that government is the problem. Well, it’s not. And
they know it’s not.

Their strategy is to simply throw accusations at Democrats,
Obama in particular, which have no basis in any kind of reality. Case in point:
How often have we heard that, ‘Obama is coming for your guns.’ So…when is this
going to happen? He’s only got two more years left in office. If that is indeed
him plan he best get to it don’t you think?

Obamacare. My God the rhetoric on that hit new lows for
lying. Death Panels. Killing Grandma. Government takeover of health care. When,
in reality, do you know what it was? Insurance reform. It simply required
everyone to have health insurance. Bought in the marketplace. Sure, with some
financial assistance for those too poor to do so, but so what? It was a massive expansion of customers to private
businesses. That’s it. That’s IT. Nothing more. But to hear the Republicans
tell the story, it was going to be the death of this country. But if it was their idea…no wait, it was.

The Party of No is now the Party of Hell No. With no
rational reason for it.

Except one.

Because there are only two parties. And, when you have no
vision, the strategy becomes simple. Trash the other vision. You do not have to
offer up a plan if you spend all your time discrediting the other plan. Don’t believe
me? Ask John Boehner. He stated, publicly, that Congress should not be judged
on how many laws they pass but how many they repeal. Well, on both counts, they
have failed miserably, since this Congress is on track to pass the fewest
number of laws of a Congress ever…and have repealed exactly zero.

They believe they are saving us from Obama. Well you know
what? With that view you are disrespecting the will of the majority. Obama was
elected, legitimately and without fraud, twice. The people spoke. You just don’t
like their answer. Too bad. Win an election.

So remember this. Republicans have a vision; they truly do. But they aren’t telling you what it is. Why?
Because they know it is too onerous, too repugnant to offer up publicly. I will
tell you what it is – two words: Social Security. They want your money. Your money. They pretty it up with talks of “Freedom to
invest your contributions as you see fit” to give the illusion of personal
control. Bullshit. They want your money so it can be thrown into the stock
market and they can make money off your money.

Disagree? Then prove me wrong.

Politics has been called the Art of Compromise. However,
when you have one party refusing to do so, you get nothing. The system breaks
down.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

I am not usually that impulsive of a person. The Virgo in me
says to think, re-think, and then think again before doing something like that.
But circumstances fell in a perfect way in that I had a three-day weekend
coming up, a place to stay in Panama City, and a quick check of Expedia netted
a nonstop round-trip flight for $350.

Not to mention a beautiful hostess who was very eager to
show me around. (Insert the wink icon here)

I have never ventured outside of the States. Canada doesn’t
count. So this was going to be my first real international venture. Customs.
Foreign people. New culture. I was very excited. And luckily, my excitement and
expectations were easily trumped by the experiences. Panama is a beautiful
country with very friendly people.

Panamanians are very passionate about two things: The Panama
Canal and Roberto Duran. And luckily for me, I got to meet both. A friend of
mine told me, when I mentioned to him I was going to Panama, that I needed to meet
Duran. My initial thought was, yeah, sure. A city of two million people and I
am going to find him. I informed my hostess, Ileana, of what my friend said.
She replied, “Oh, Roberto is a good friend. I’ll introduce you.” My jaw
dropped. See, I am a boxing fan, and there was no better period, in my opinion,
of boxing than the early 1980’s Middleweight scene – Sugar Ray Leonard, Thomas
“The Hit Man” Hearns, Alexis Arguello…

And Manos De Piedras. Roberto Duran. He was the best of them
all. If you don’t believe me just check out YouTube. He kicked Sugar Ray
Leonard’s ass before the ‘No Mas’ fight.

So Ileana takes me to his club in downtown Panama City, we
open the door…and there he is. Ileana tells him that I traveled all the way
from the United States to meet him (a nice little lie there). Roberto puts his
hands together and bows to me. Bows! I shook his sandpaper hand of stone and
said “Manos De Piedras…it’s an honor.” He thanked me and said, “You want picture?”

Hell yes! And here we are.

The other point of pride, the Panama Canal, was also on the
itinerary. We took a day trip to the Miraflores Locks and watched the huge
vessel ships go through. Here was a history lesson for me – the Panama Canal
isn’t just a set of locks. It is eighty miles long with a series of locks which
raise and lower ships from the sea-level of the two oceans to the level of the
lake in the middle of the country, about 85 feet above sea level. A massive
engineering undertaking to essentially raise and lower ships via the gravity of
water up 85 feet then back down.

While Panama City is certainly cosmopolitan, the country is
quite third-world-like in many respects. People do not know how to drive. Road
signs are a minor inconvenience, which are only voluntarily adhered to. Cars
come from you in all directions. Livestock crosses roads. Some of the living
quarters for people are better suited for poultry. Being from the States, I
considered this all quite quaint. Ileana informed that if we got pulled over by the police to not say anything (because that would peg me as a foreigner) and to give her ten dollars. Often cops stop you just to get money. See, had I spoken and they heard my gringo voice, the price would have gone to $50.

The president of the country lives in a section of Panama
City called Old Town. There is no mistaking when you get near his residence as
there are soldiers at the ready with machine guns. You are instructed to turn
your headlights off (after dark) so that they can see inside the vehicle.
Again, a little Banana Republic-like. Old Town is a place full of character.
Sort of a cross between the French Quarter and Key West. Narrow streets and a
feel of danger. But I was told it is very safe, and I had a personal
confirmation of this, as children went laughing and running down the streets.

Panamanians are very friendly people. Coming from Miami, and
only being there for three days, I never truly accepted this, as my Untrusting
American side kept coming out, like when I bought a Panama hat for $25 but
handed the guy $40. He said he had to go get change. I demurred, and told him
oh nonono…you leave with that $40 and I will never see you again. But I was
assured by Ileana that he would return with my change. And he did.

I thought I was an urbane individual. But after my trip to
Panama I realized just how much of a sheltered life I have lived.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

It started innocently enough, as I was taking an afternoon
dip in the pool at my apartment complex after my Saturday volunteer gig at a
local golf course. It being summer, I was a burnt to a crisp, dehydrated
amalgam of suntan lotion and bug spray. I needed a body of water to slide
myself into. The pool was at a crisp 92 degrees. Not that it mattered – it was
wet. All I was looking for.

My apartment is the closest one to the pool, a literal
50-foot walk from my front door to the deep end. Thus, when I am in my
apartment I can hear the sounds of the pool, and on a typical weekend I hear
the splashing, kids laughing, maybe some music…and the chatter.

Incessant, rapid chatter.

Spanish chatter.

The Cubans had taken over the pool.

Hey, I don’t care. It’s Miami and I’m a gringo.

So there I was in the pool surrounded by a very large,
extended family of Cubans. There was grandma and grandpa in their lounge
chairs. There were their offspring in their 20s and 30s with their children. In
all, about 20 or so. They were cooking something on the grill which smelled
divine. Two young girls were splashing in the pool, shouting, “Dale! Mira!” at
each other. There were two guys animatively discussing something with
interjections of, “Claro…pero…” There were the mothers with their babies slowly
acclimating them to the water while the babies squealed with delight. I did not
understand a single thing they were saying, but I totally knew what was going
on. They were having fun.

And apparently they were celebrating something, because they
all eventually got out of the pool and gathered around the grill and sang
something which I guess was ‘Happy Birthday to You…’ in Spanish.

It was a nice scene. Then they got back in the water and
finally noticed me, the prune-fingered gringo who hadn’t moved in over two
hours. And we started talking. In English. Because, yes, they spoke English as
well, and very well.

And we had a great time. They asked where I was from and I
told them Ohio. They didn’t understand, so I said Akron…where LeBron James is
from. “Ahhh Laybrrrro Yaymes! Bayskeetbol pllllayur!” And we had a nice talk
about how people in Miami are all from somewhere else, including, obviously,
them. I learned some Spanish and they learned some English slang. For example,
I taught them the difference between “Y’all” and “You guys.” Which is basically,
what part of the United States you’re from.

These are very loud people. Very animated. When someone
shows up they all stop what they’re doing and yell in unison, “AYYYYY!!!!” When
they talk it’s with machine-gun rapidity. It is never quiet.

Just like my blood Italian family.

So anyway. It was getting dark so I excused myself to go
eat. It was a nice afternoon with the Cubans by the pool.

The next Saturday I was back at the pool after my golf work
shift doing the same thing - hydrating.

And so were they. All of them. In their usual spots. Except
this time, they saw me immediately as I walked through the gate. And they all
went, “AYYYYY!!!!”

Thursday, May 15, 2014

I have been in my chosen career for over thirty years now,
and have worked for five different companies during that time. And for at least
a dozen different bosses. Some have been very good; inspiring, motivational
individuals.

And others have just flat-out sucked.

I am a boss myself. I have a staff of 23 very different
individuals. Literally, a United Nations collective, since I presently work in
Miami. Comes with the territory. And I can tell you that being the boss ain’t
easy. What I have discovered is that it comes down to individual relationships –
what works for Scott won’t work with Merci. Management isn’t a ‘one size fits
all’ proposal – what motivates one person doesn’t work with another. As well, I
have discovered that what people really want to know is why they are doing
something. Tell them that, and things tend to go much smoother.

By no means do I consider myself a great boss. But I do
think I am fairly competent on what I do, and if my staff’s collective morale
is any indication, my style seems to work. But Gawd-DAMN I have witnessed and been
subjected to boss styles that are horrid. Here are but a few, and I will be
careful as to not totally blow their cover.

Not that they don’t deserve it, mind you. But here we go:

The Condescending
Bitch: I have nothing against female bosses; let me be clear on that. But I
had one female boss who was very dictatorial and kept her staff on a very short
leash. She took over as my supervisor at a job I was at about ten years ago,
where I was about three years into my employment. And apparently she felt she
had to squarely press her thumb down on staff. She ruled through domination.
Her pet phrase was, whenever I was presenting something, was to interrupt me
and say, “What Jerry is TRYING to say is…”

Bitch, what I am trying to say is what I am saying. Shut up
and listen.

The ‘Nothing is My
Fault’ Douchenozzle: Everyone knows this type. He gives vague, cryptic
direction on how he wants something accomplished, and then when the results aren’t
what he wanted, he rants. Further, he has no compunction to toss his staff
under the tires when he is pressed by his higher-ups. You wish he gets run over
by a truck, which usually happens anyway, since Karma takes care of these
types. The pet phrase of these types is, “You need to work smarter, not harder.”

Yeah well, you need your genitals attached to electricity.

The ‘In Over His Head’
Jerk: This is The Peter Principle in practice. Just because you are a good,
say, bus driver doesn’t mean you are good at MANAGING bus drivers. Management
is its own field of expertise, but this guy doesn’t understand that. Through
doing a certain task for a number of years, he gets promoted; usually due to
nobody else wanting the position. He then finds himself in charge of people who
were his peers, and he cannot make the transformation. These types usually end
up burning themselves out over the pressure and end up doing the work
themselves since they have no clue on how to motivate people to do it for them.

The Preening Empty
Suit: I saved this one for last, as he was my boss at my previous place of
employment. He would strut around like a rooster in his freshly pressed
three-piece suit replete with a quad-folded handkerchief in the breast pocket,
looking ready to host some fucking game show. But the clothes had no emperor.
There was zero substance under the style. When pressed for direction, his
common reply was, “Let me get back to you on that,” or, “Let me check with the
boss.” But you knew what was really going on – he couldn’t buy a clue if you
spotted him a goddamn loan to get one.

This fuck-knuckle would actually walk up to people, look
them straight in the eye and say, “How much do you value your job?” Because the
common theme with these types is raging insecurity – they know they’re vacuous,
but to keep you at bay they have to make sure you’re worried about your
employment.

I really hope I am not any of these types. I guess if I was
I wouldn’t be sitting in a corner window office on the 12th floor of
a building in downtown Miami.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

Want to know the height of arrogant presumption? I am
about to do it. I am going to define my entire generation via one word. One.
Single. Word.

Ready? Here it is –

Cool.

That’s the word to define Baby Boomers and those who came
the generation after for good measure. It’s what we all wanted to be. Cool. And
what did we not want to be?

Un-cool.

It’s not a temperature. It’s not a weather term. It’s an
attitude. Everyone wants to be cool. Now, previous generations had their terms
that connoted cool – suave, debonair, smooth. We also had synonyms such as hip,
jake, chill.

But it was cool to be cool.

Cool got you laid. Cool got doors opened for you. Cool got
you popular – “Oh, Frankie over there? He’s cool.” It was the only label you
needed. Smart? Psht. Educated? Please. Vegetarian? Dude, not cool.

Sometimes imploring someone to be cool is what a situation
totally calls for:

Now I would be remiss if I didn't give a nod to the runner-up word of our generation: Fuck. For those offended by that, get the fuck over it.Or fucking, better, get a fucking clue because fuck is the fuckingest baddest word any motherfucker ever fucked. Which, as that sentence demonstrates, shows the versatility of it.But cool is a word with so many uses which all center on one, singular intent.

Monday, May 5, 2014

Years ago, when my dad was a young man, he would make
frequent trips to Miami for vacation. As a result of those trips he nicknamed
Florida “The land of the hustle.”

No, my dad wasn’t into disco. He was referring to how Florida
used to be – a land where people with shady pasts or questionable character
could swoop in, run a couple of scams then leave before the authorities caught
up with them.

And this was more or less true in the 1960s and 1970s –
Miami was a growing, burgeoning cauldron of immigrants, snowbirds and natives
trying to stake out their piece of paradise. And in doing so they were subjected
to various fly-by-nighters who would promise to fix a roof, build a pool or
pour a patio. These vermin would take a deposit to do the work then never show
up. They did their hustle then skipped town.

I am here to tell you the hustle still exists. Getting a
reputable contractor to do work on your house is still a dicey proposition. But
also, a huge black market has flourished here as a result – people don’t call
the Better Business Bureau or check Angie’s List to find a reputable worker.

They call Pepe in Hialeah.

I am not a world traveler, so I cannot tell you about the
black market in other cities, but I can tell you that whatever you need in
Miami, everyone seems to know someone who knows someone who can get you it. I mean, this happens with the most mundane purchases. For example, a
few months back I was informed I

needed to get a Guayabera. A Cuban dress shirt.
It’s a standard staple of most people’s wardrobes here. So, I innocuously
stated my intent to a few of my staff. Almost instantly, one of my staffers,
who is Cuban, sidles up to me, turns and looks to either side to be sure no one
was eavesdropping, and whispers to me, “Leesen. You want good Guayabera? I have
a cousin who weeel hooook you up.”

Dude, I’m not trying to buy a kilo of coke.

This town is loaded with those types of transactions. Trust
me, there’s a Guayabera store on damn near every major road in this town. But I
was advised to avoid all those and go see this guy’s cousin. To get a shirt.

In many ways, this is a cool side to this town. It
encourages you to get to know people so they can do you favors, to get
connected. And people here are friendly – if they like you they will hook you
up…for everything from sandwiches to yachts, someone knows someone.

But it also causes me angst. I’m a researcher. I scour the
internet, craigslist and so on to find a value deal. I pride myself in making informed
purchases. It is a bit disconcerting when that all gets neutered when someone
whispers in my ear that their brother in law can take care of me.

Sometimes this gets to me so I retreat to my sanctuary – the
golf course. Which I did the other day and played with one of the caddies at
Crandon, Danny. He was going on about his new set of irons he bought, how much
better he was hitting the ball and so on. He was real happy. In an effort to
make conversation I said, ya know, I’m thinking on getting a new set of irons
too. And there, in the middle of the seventh fairway, with nobody else around,
Danny comes over to me, pulls out a piece of paper from his wallet, and
whispers to me…

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

I love Facebook. I really do. It has provided me a
convenient way of keeping up with family and friends who I am too lazy to call.
It’s also an easy way of finding out what is going on with your friends, from
heady issues such as their health or what their children are up to, to the
critical stuff. Like pics of what they ate for lunch. You also learn a lot
about these people not gleaned from face-to-face conversations. Not to mention
the opportunity to snipe some uber cool memes. (I will never tire of Grumpy Cat) -->

But there are some things people post that make me take
pause. Things that, when I see them, I think, dude srlsy?

Here are a few things that make me smh…

People who talk to their dead relatives– You know
what I’m referring to. Posts like, “Mom you died thirteen years ago today but I
still miss you.”

Okay, let me get out of the way the fact that many people do
miss their deceased loved ones. Me included.

But what makes you think that heaven has internet?

Shit, my mom never touched a damn computer her entire life.
If I Facebook posted while she was alive that I loved her, she would never have
read it. So there is zero reason to think that her passing included a sudden
spate of tech savviness.

People…dead folks don’t have Facebook accounts.

Yeah I know. These kinds of posts are people’s way coping.
Cool. I’m down. But really – if you want to remember your dead dad, go lay some
flowers on his grave.

Share if you love Jesus!

And if you don’t you’re going to burn in hell.

Apparently that’s the message. Lemme ask – can I love Jesus
without sharing this post? Is that allowed? This is remotely related to my
previous beef. We all agree that Jesus died some two thousand years ago, a
horrific death which included nails being driven through his extremities. So
he’s dead. Some think he now sits at the right hand of God. Okay.

But why does my feelings towards him hinge on whether I
share your zealous post or not?

Political Opinions That Can't Be Backed up – Look.
Those who know me know I love a good political debate. However, many do not
understand what the word ‘debate’ means. They think they can post their view
through some kind of politically-based meme and get three thousand likes.

Well, forgive me if I might have questions. And forgive me
further if I ask them.

What usually happens when this occurs is one of two things:
Either the poster explains they did not intend to engage in debate, or I am
told how stupid I am for having a different opinion. Either reply leads to the
same conclusion:

You got no business telling us your opinion in a public
forum.

So stop it.

Game Invites – I don’t know what Farmville is. I have
no interest in finding out.

So I guess these are usual irritants which occur when the
collective moshes on a website. I wonder if Mark Zuckerburg saw this coming?

Friday, April 18, 2014

I am not Steven Covey. I don’t possess some kind mystic
knowledge that can be distilled into Seven Habits and thus launch a self-help
empire.

I also do not claim to possess the ability to make people
who work for me motivated to the point of wanting to topple small countries on
my behest.

But I think I have found the key to managing people somewhat
successfully.

Ready?

Well, first, before I divulge this wad of wisdom, let me
tell you how people operate in the workplace. Specifically, how do you get
people to do what you want and need them to do?

People are curious. When they are faced with a task, they
often have a number of questions about the task. Some of these are obvious –
they need to know how to do the task; but we can assume that they already have
that ability. If not, provide them training.

They also want to know when they need to have the work done
by – what’s my deadline for this? That’s pretty simple too – by the end of the
day, the week, or month. Whatever. But be careful with this one – don’t concoct
some fake deadline to try to motivate. It may work once, but never more than
that.

There are also the logistics of the task – who am I to do
this with? Where? Again, those are relatively easy to address. But here’s the
key to it all –

People want to know why.

So tell them.

And tell them the truth – ‘Boss is trying to prepare a
proposal by the end of the week. Your role will provide the needed statistical
analysis of foreclosures in Hialeah, which will give the report its needed
depth. You obviously have a strong grasp on the analysis and the area being
looked at. The report will be shared by upper management.’

Sometimes the why question has offshoots, like “Why me? Why
not Joe down the hall?” Or, “Why can’t this be done by the IT group?”

Be as honest and as patient you can with these queries.
Answer them all. If you haven’t figured out the answers to those, do so before
springing it on your staff. Because they will ask. And if not you, they will
ask others. They want to know why, and they are going to find one way or the
other.

So take control of it. Answer the why questions.

Now, here’s the worst possible answer to give:

“Because I said so.”

Wrong on so many levels. For one, we are not dealing with
eight year olds. For two, trying to place yourself on a higher authoritative
level than them is ridiculous; you already have a title that clears that up.
They know it is because you said so – tossing that at them absolutely kills
their motivation. It’s patronizing.

A wonderful benefit of answering the why questions is, you just
might find a better way to accomplish the task – “Oh, so if that’s the reason,
why don’t we try it this way?” I have gotten such feedback so many times and
have used that advice often. Hey, I’m just a guy with a plan, but I am not so
naïve and insecure to believe that since it emanated from my brain it is
infallible.

People who know why they are doing something are motivated.
They’re empowered. And they feel like they have a boss who listens to them.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

(Note: I wrote the following three years ago when my mother was still alive. It was in my first book. I felt it was worth posting here and since it's my blog, I make the rules :) )My mother is the
most amazing person I know.

I always say she was born one
generation too early. Had she been born in my generation, there is no doubt she
would be the head of an accounting firm, or CFO of a Fortune 500 company. Great
mind, sharp as a tack, a whiz with numbers. Since she wasn’t born in my
generation, she instead did what women of her generation were expected to do –
she got married and raised a family. After her fourth and final child was born
(me), she went back to work as a bookkeeper. She likes to use that title in an
attempt to remain humble, but she was far more than the gal who balanced the
company checkbook. She ran whatever office she worked in. She was the
confidante to her various bosses, knew where all the bodies were buried.

When she got home, she would
quickly cook supper before dad got home from his job as a plumber. We would
have dinner, she would clean up, relax for like thirty seconds, then would help
me with mine or my sibling’s homework. She would then retire to her chair and
crochet afghans. Constant motion. Selfless. Always put the needs of the family
ahead of her own.

In 1974, at the age of
forty-seven, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was 16 at the time. The
prognosis was not good, and the treatment plan, given the comparable stone-age
era of cancer treatment that existed at the time, was a radical mastectomy -
surgery to remove not only her right breast, but also most of the muscles in
her upper right arm. We, of course, were horrified. The age I was at, I could
not process this. Was my mom going to die?

Yes, that was a very real
possibility.

The night before the surgery was
surreal. It was a steady stream of well-wishers – family, friends, and
neighbors. You could see the fear in each of their eyes. Mom was not scared, or
at least she didn’t let on that she was…I am sure she was, but in typical mom
fashion, there was no hint of it. Each person came up to her, tears in their
eyes, telling her it is going to be okay. Mom’s reply, over and over, was
twofold. First she would say “Hey look. I am going to be fine. I’m going to get
this taken care of and I will see you next week.” Then she would ask how THEY
were doing. Amazing. That’s my mom.

The surgery was difficult. Mom
was in the hospital for almost two weeks. The follow-up care involved
radiation, which sapped her seemingly unlimited supply of strength. Things were
done for her once she got home which she did not like in the least. It took a
few months until she was back to where she was physically before the surgery,
but the bottom line was, she was alive and cancer-free.

Up next was physical therapy. A
regimen was laid out to her that that included; yes you guessed it – taking up
golf. Mom had never touched a golf club in her life. The doctor said that it
would be perfect for her – a low-impact, healthy activity that would strengthen
her decimated right arm. The walking would be good for her circulation. Since
she had most of the muscles in her upper right arm removed, golf would help
getting that area of her body into condition.

For the two years preceding this
scare, I was a typical teenager. Translation: I was a lazy slacker that had to
be cajoled into doing the most mundane of tasks. I was in the process of
‘separation’ from my parents. My own personality was developing, and part of
that development was to begin rejecting whatever my parents stood for. There
were almost daily arguments as I was being, well, recalcitrant.

And we went. In an odd turnaround
of the traditional dynamic, instead of mom helping me with my math homework, I
was helping her to learn a game I had embraced years earlier.

This was difficult for me. For
one, I did not like to tell my mom to do anything. For two, I did not have a
real good grasp of how to communicate in a teaching manner the mechanics of a
golf swing. And for three, my first student was a 48-year-old breast cancer
survivor with no muscles in her upper right arm. It was a challenge. Much of my
so-called instruction was, “Mom, watch me.” And her reply was usually, “Yes I
see what you are doing son…but I can’t do that.”

In short order it became clear
that mom needed professional instruction. She enrolled for a set of lessons
with a local pro, and ate it up. Every Wednesday, 6p to 8p. She would bounce
home and come straight up to me, all enthused, “Jerry, look at what I learned!”
I had to admit I had to fight the urge to say uh, I don’t think that’s right
mom, but the look in her eye dissuaded me from doing so. She had that same look
in her eye that I did when I first fell in love with the game years earlier,
and I was not about to dampen that enthusiasm with my opinion on what a pro was
telling her.

My dad, who never liked to be
left out of anything, started joining us. I kind of hate to admit it, but mom
really did not like playing with dad, as he was wont to point out anything my
mom was doing incorrectly. “Charlie, worry about your own damn game” was one of
her common replies. But if I had something to say about her swing, she was all
ears. See, I am more similar in personality to my mom. We are both analytical,
introspective. My dad was an impulsive extrovert. If you were going to have a
party, mom would plan it & dad would crash it. Dad would befriend anyone,
then make mom tell them to leave. They worked well together as a parenting
team, but when it came to golf, mom preferred her advice from me.

During the summer we would play
at least three times a week, usually at Sycamore Valley, a short course perfect
for beginners. We usually walked, and we always talked about anything and
everything. Every time we played golf, I got smarter. Know how teenagers seem
to think their parents are dumb as rocks? I was starting to adopt that attitude
when mom’s cancer struck, and the resulting dynamic turned this traumatic event
into something beautiful. At an age when most kids are moving away from their
parents, I was getting closer to mine. My older siblings were gone – Barb was
married, Kenny was in Florida and Patty had her own apartment in nearby Stow.
The household was mom and dad…and me. There may have been some animosity of how
close mom and I were becoming, but either I was not aware of it or it did not
exist. In either case, it was irrelevant in my mind. I had mom’s attention now.
They had their time. This was mine.

When we golfed, mom would work on
what the pro was imparting to her. I would steer clear of that and help her
with other aspects of the game – reading greens, playing the wind, club
selection. In other words, I left her swing in the hands of the pro but I took
care of everything else. The mechanics of the golf swing are just a fraction of
what is entailed in “learning” how to play this crazy game. ‘Mom, see that sand
trap over there? I don’t think you can clear that, so why don’t you aim to the
right so your next shot is a simple pitch shot onto the green?’ That kind of
stuff.

We took golf trips. Myrtle Beach,
Ft. Lauderdale, Las Vegas. We would discuss the game at the dinner table –
“Look what Jerry showed me today”…”Lemme tell you what mom did on the course
yesterday”…

Mom’s swing was very slow and
methodical, much as you would expect from a bookkeeper, a person who makes a
living making sure things are correct, would be. She would stand over the ball
for an inordinate amount of time, going through her mental check list – (ball
off left instep…hands ahead…weight evenly balanced…) – and once she was
satisfied that everything was how it should be, she would take the club back
slowly. She would pause at the top, but with the lack of upper-arm muscles, she
could not control the club at the top – the weight of the club and momentum of
the backswing would cause the club to slide out of her grip – she would then
re-grip it as her first move down. This action caused her right hand to roll
over too quickly on the downswing and shut the clubface at impact. The result
was usually a pull-hook – the ball would start left of the target and
curve/hook farther to the left.

The standard joke was, ‘My mother
the hooker.’

We became inseparably close. A
bond was formed that was impenetrable. For all of dad’s attempts at infiltration
or my sibling’s perceived animosity, those forces were moot. Golfers know this
bond. Now, mix in that it is a mother and her youngest child, and further that
it was a ‘man-bites-dog’ story line, that the child was teaching the mother,
and you had something that was unique, wonderful and beautiful.

Cancer is a horrible disease. It
robs us of loved ones. But in the case, it reunited us.

Mom is now 83 years old, a
forty-six-year (and counting) breast cancer survivor. A few years back, she
contracted Reynaud’s Disease, a circulatory ailment that resulted in the
amputation of two fingers on her right hand and half a finger on her left. That
ended her golf, though she still crochets like mad, cranking out an afghan a
week. She then donates her hand-made afghans to Project Linus, an organization
that gives sick children free blankets. Recently, she completed her 300th
donated afghan.

Once her golfing days were done,
she gave away her clubs to a friend of my sister’s who was taking up the game.
That she gave her clubs away is typical for the most selfless person I
have ever known.

Thursday, January 30, 2014

Ay dios mio. I have now been in Miami for a year. And to a
certain extent it has made me loca de la cabeza. My life has become influenced
by a place that is like nowhere else in the world. Not that I have been around
the world to confirm this, but I would like to know of a place that combines
swamps, Cubans, high-rises, Jews, Venezuelans, pissed-off impatient drivers,
empanadas and lizards.

Enlighten me if you know of such a place.

So for now there is only Miami.

I have lived in Florida for half of my life. I spent 27
years in Ohio and 27 going on 28 here. My Florida residences have been such
places as Orlando, Palm Beach, Port St. Lucie, Boca Raton, Jupiter, and scads
of others. I even lived in a place called Greenacres. Loot it up, it exists.
None are like Miami. At all.

First, the similarities. It gets hot in the summer and
comfortable in the winter. There, that’s it.

Miami is a world unto itself. Those familiar to south
Florida know this, as when you cross the county line from Broward in to
Miami-Dade County, it just ‘feels’ different. Things get busier, louder and
edgier. Your leisurely commute down I-95 or the Turnpike turns into a
screeching halt of mind-numbing traffic. The billboards are suddenly in
Spanish. People in their black Beemers roar by you at 100 miles an hour. In the distance you see a skyline of a major
city; scores of buildings. You know that somewhere to the east is an ocean and
the so-called high life of South Beach.

But from your vantage point of creeping towards the Golden
Glades interchange? It just looks like chaos.

And I am here to tell you. It is.

As you slither down I-95 towards those high-rises, you pass
through the rougher neighborhoods of Miami. Allapattah. Hialeah. Liberty City.
Overtown. Places where the riots happened back in the 80’s. Places where most of
the country know by CSI Miami or The First 48. Nasty places. There is a small town called Opa-Locka which you hope to never find yourself in. Why? Because their crime rate is three times higher than Detroit. Be sure you do NOT
stop for gas or directions in these areas. You will leave without you wallet or
car. But you will be offered crack, or forced to buy it at gunpoint. True. Just
keep driving.

You pass under the I-195 which takes you to Miami Beach.
Suddenly the skyline is right in your face, and is it beautiful. The
architecture of downtown Miami is mesmerizing. And at night, it is enthralling.
You cross the Miami River, and the high-rises continue, except now, instead of
it being commercial real estate, it is residential high-rises. Welcome to
Brickell. You are now where the well-heeled lived. You are now somewhat safe to
pull off the highway and gawk.

While you are there, head east to Mary Brickell Village and
grab something to eat. Go two more blocks and say hello to Biscayne Bay and the
causeway which takes you over to South Beach. Beautiful.

If you keep heading south, I-95 ends and becomes Dixie
Highway. Don’t panic. You are now heading to the civilized side of Miami. Coral
Gables. THE U. Coconut Grove. South Miami. You will notice the homes change
from duplexes with bars on the windows to million-dollar homes with manicured
yards. Your blood pressure should start dropping.

So there’s Miami geography in a nutshell. Go east and you
are on the beach. Go west and you better speak Spanish. Go further west and you are in the Everglades. My Walmart is in
Westchester, and you do not hear a lick of English in there. If I need
assistance I have to ask, “Habla Ingles?” first.

I know this tends to piss off some people, and they
rightfully point out that Miami is in the United States. Technically, yes. This
is true. The American flag does indeed fly. But this is a town heavily
influenced by Cuban migration which has been going on for the better part of a
century. But it is not just Cubans – Haitians, Venezuelans, Colombians, Puerto
Ricans, Bahamians, Jamaicans, Brazilians, Argentinians – they have all carved
out their niches here. Miami is an international town, and always will be.

These factors, along with the ‘bigness’ of the place makes
for a smoldering cauldron of emotions. People tend to get pissed off easily
here. Don’t believe me? Wait two seconds at a light that just turned green. The
car horns will reinforce that you are in a place where people do not have a lot
of patience. Factor into this roux of People from Other Countries are people
like, well, me. Northerners who moved to get out of the snow and cold. While
there are many of us, we are dwarfed by the wave after wave of immigrants who
washed ashore, literally, in Miami. I am an English-speaking gringo from Ohio,
which makes me a minority.

And yes, I have seen the bias that African Americans have had
to deal with for centuries. Cubans control this town. I am an outsider. It is a
palpable feel. I have seen it in action at work; the bias towards those of
Latin descent. They, of course, will deny it. But it is there.

So. This is how I feel about Miami: It is a cool place to
visit, even a cool place to live. But it is not my home. I am here because I
was offered a very good job with good money. And I am somewhat comfortable
here. But I miss Orlando, the last place I lived. O-Town is Miami without the
edge to it. Hell, even the dope dealers are nicer there.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

So I just checked my blog and realized that I haven’t
written a story in over three months. Three months! That is easily the longest
time between stories since I started the blog over five years ago. I have written 157 stories, which works out to about 30 a year, or about one every two
weeks.

And of course, my thoughts are not that linear. It goes in
spurts. There was one month where I wrote thirteen stories. I guess I just had
a lot on my mind that month.

Which is not to say I haven’t had much on my mind these past
three months. Certainly there have been many times in this period where I have
thought, ‘that would make a good blog story,’ but I can never seem to form it
into a cogent, cohesive story.

I believe this is what they call Writer’s Block.

So here I am writing a story about not being able to write a
story.

But it goes a bit deeper than that. It’s not that I cannot
seem to cobble thoughts together. It’s more a matter of, well shit, I’ve said
what I wanted to say. 157 times. Certainly I have had material to opine on, but
they are subjects which I already done. Politics? Y’all know where I stand on
that, and even though Conservatives have given me much to lambaste them on;
after all, they did shut down the government over not liking a law, but that
subject has been done.

I’ve written seven stories on Miami, my new home. A half
dozen on my mom’s passing. At least a dozen on rock and roll. And y’all don’t
really care about my golf game.

So what else is there? I just described my life in its
current state. I love Miami, I miss my mom, the job is great and I hate the Tea
Party. And I shot 81 today with two birdies. I am NOT going to talk about the
Cleveland Browns. They have already sucked enough life out of me.

So I hope I have only hit a dry patch of topics and the
imagination will be rekindled. But what I fear is something more insidious:

I fear I've lost my muse.

Writers need an inspiritive spark. When I wrote my novel
last summer, that spark turned into a five-alarm fire, and I could not write
fast enough. I would dash home from work and write until I would look up to see
it was midnight. It was a frenetic time where I was amazingly alive; thoughts
flowed like Niagara Falls.

So I am thankful to my muse for that period. And maybe this
is how she works – she gives and then she takes away. I mean, no writer is
inspired all the time. So how do I get her back? Burnt offerings? Chanting? Meditation?
Virginal sacrifices?

Where did she go? Did I piss her off? Did I bore her to
death? Is she saying "Jerry, you’ve told the world what you needed to tell.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have to give Stephen King yet another way to
scare the crap out of people.”

Sunday, August 18, 2013

I am a mama’s boy. Always have been. Many of my childhood
memories centered around things I did with my mother. I am the youngest, and
for whatever reasons, it seemed like her and me were together often. Just the
two of us.

I am blessed in many ways, but this may the topper. Because
I was influenced, shaped and molded by the most selfless person I have even
known. Which is kind of funny since I grew up to be a pretty selfish person.
However, I have a very soft and caring side, and the last thing I ever want to
do to anyone is hurt them. I have not always succeeded in this goal, but my
heart has always been in the right place.

That’s just one of the countless lessons I learned from my
mom. Treat people like you want to be treated.

I remember when I was a young adult, about twenty years old
and in college. Like most people that age, the future seemed very exciting…and
scary. And like most, I truly had no idea what I wanted to do with my life; I
had no idea where it would take me or what I would do to make a living. Oh
sure, I wanted to be the successor to Jack Nicklaus, but my drive and desire to
master the game of golf never ran to Tiger-like levels. I played a decent
game…but I was not going to be a PGA Tour golfer.

So what was I going to be? I had no clue.

So I asked my mom.

At the time mom was still working as, as she put it, a
Bookkeeper. But she was just being humble. She was the Accountant for one of
the largest construction companies in Akron, the confidante to the big boss, and
the person who knew where all the bodies were buried. She was plugged in to the
corporate scene. She knew people. And they loved her because she did her job
expertly and could be trusted with anything.

So when I asked her this question, “Mom, what am I going to
be?,” she gave me that warm smile she
reactively gave, looked me in the eye and said, “Son, you are headed to
Mahogany Row.”

Mahogany Row. I had no idea what that meant. But it sounded
nice.

She elaborated. “Son, you are going places. You will one day
have a large corner office with people reporting to you. The term comes from
the desk you will sit behind. It will be made of mahogany. That’s what bosses
sit behind.”

Now. This could, and likely was, encouraging motherly talk.
But that did not matter to me. My mom always spoke the truth.

I am honing in on thirty years in my chosen career. Earlier
this year I took a job in Miami, which is the best job I have had yet. The
money is very good, I am a ‘boss’ to 23 people, and I have a corner window office.
But the desk isn’t mahogany…that was the one detail she did not quite get
right.

I accepted that position on February 6th of this
year. At that time my mom was in a hospice care unit with advanced stages of
dementia. I debated whether to even tell her the news, as I am sure she would
not have been able to process it. I was so proud of my accomplishment that,
finally, I could not help myself. I had to tell her. So I called her at the
facility. She did not answer. Two days later she passed away.

At the calling hours that Friday I had a few minutes alone
with mom at her casket.

Monday, July 29, 2013

Okay, let’s get this out of the way right at the top – I am
a Cleveland Browns fan.

I will wait for the snickering to stop.

Still waiting.

Done?

All right, that’s enough. Look, I had no choice in this
matter. I was conceived in Akron and raised in Northeast Ohio. They are pretty
rabid about their Beloved Brownies. And I embraced that rabid…, uh, ity, and
proudly donned the seal brown and orange right about the time the team was in
the last throes of yearly dominance while that team 125 miles away rose to
prominence. That ushered in a reversal of fortunes for the two teams, as the
Browns went into hibernation, occasionally coming out with seasons like the
1980 Kardiac Kids and the unfathomable teases of the late 1980s Bernie Kosar
teams which always got slapped back in the AFC Championship by John Horseteeth.
The 1990s brought us Bill Belichick before he was a genius followed by the
unthinkable – the team was taken away.

A new team masquerading as the ‘Cleveland Browns’ resurfaced
in 1999 pushing the envelope of putridity to depths never before experienced.

Meanwhile that team 125 miles away got six Lombardi
trophies.

Oh, and the team that left Cleveland in 1995? They got two.

My God I’m tired.

Yes, training camp has just begun, and yes, I am reading
every bit of information about how Paul Kruger is looking awesome, how
Barkevious Mingo is ready to decapitate opposing quarterbacks and how Trent
Richardson is ready to churn out twenty touchdowns this year. And I am really trying
to get my ‘tude on and go toe to toe with fans of other teams, about how THIS
year it is going to be different.

Here come those snickers again.

And they have every right to snicker. 1964. Nineteen-freekin-sixty-four.
That was the last time the Browns were the champs of the NFL. Forty-nine years
ago. Jim Brown. Frank Ryan. Gary Collins. Names I have read about, but since I
was only six years old at the time, never got to see play. I have proof in
black and white footage of Collins catching three TDs in the title game as the
Browns laid the lumber on the Colts, 27-0. My dad said it was awesome.

I give up. Y’all win. There is nothing left in the smack
tank with me anymore. We suck. We have sucked for a long time. Point your
fingers and laugh. You will get no retort from me. I got no room to talk. What,
am I gonna say how good Derek Anderson looked for half a season in 2007? How I
thought Lee Suggs was going to win the rushing title?

Laugh away.

But.

Just because that’s the way things were doesn’t mean that’s
the way things will be.

Remember that when we hoist that motherfucking Lombardi
Trophy one day.